Before The Ship Sails
by r4ven3
Summary: Set after the end of S9, and before S10 opens, Harry confides in Malcolm about his going nowhere' relationship with Ruth, and Malcolm does his best to help. However, despite Malcolm's expert help, Harry can be his own worst enemy.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: This fic opens a couple of weeks after Harry has been suspended at the end of 9.08.**_

* * *

"Why do you bother?"

"You see, Harry, outside my family members – aside from a couple of miscreants – you and Ruth are two of the people I care about most. It would warm my heart to see you get beyond this …. this ….."

"I have my fears that whatever `this' is, it's impossible to navigate – maybe not for me, but it seems so for her."

"And this other woman?"

"You make it sound like I've been unfaithful to Ruth, Malcolm."

"Ruth would see it that way."

"But Ruth and I …. we've never …... you know."

"Never? Never, not even once?"

"No, not ever. I'm sure I'd remember it if we had."

"Quite. And this woman?"

"Meryl. Her name's Meryl. We did, but only the one time."

"Why only once?"

"Because she's not Ruth."

"So you're not in love with her ….. this …... Meryl."

"No, Malcolm, I'm not in love with her. It's Ruth I love."

"So …... why Meryl? If you love Ruth,surely ….."

"What would you have done if, when, as a favour to your hosts, you took a woman home after a dinner party, and on her doorstep she opened your zip and put her hand on it?"

"I'd have asked her to remove her hand."

"It only happened the once."

"That sentence has been spoken often in courts of law, and you know Ruth …... she'll want details. She will want to know _why_." Malcolm looked down at his drink, and slid his thumb up and down the bottle of Carlsberg, diverting the rivulets of moisture which ran down, like rain on a windowpane. The pub was beginning to fill with the lunchtime crowd. "I have an idea. I don't know if it's a good one, but it should bring things out in the open for you and Ruth."

"Go on. I'm listening."

"It will involve you getting to my house without being seen."

"I'm sure I can manage that."

* * *

_Malcolm's house – a week later_:

"Harry, good to see you. I trust you managed to get here without …... difficulty."

"I was followed, but I lost them. Public transport has its advantages."

"Good, good. Tea and biscuits are in the dining room. I'll be in my bedroom if you need me for anything. I'm reading a good book about hacking into mainframes, written by a 21 year-old from Finland. Can you believe that? Kids these days."

Harry went through to the dining room. A large shiny oval-shaped walnut table stood under a wide window overlooking the back yard. Sitting at the table, her attention drawn to the neat flower beds bordering the lawn, was Ruth. When she turned to face him, he noticed the dark circles under her eyes, the layers of clothing she wore which covered her body, hiding her curves from prying eyes. _From eyes like mine_, he thought.

"Hello Harry," she said. "Would you like tea?"

"Thank you." He would have preferred a whiskey, something to loosen his tongue and his thoughts, something to give him false courage. He sat down opposite her and watched as she poured tea into his cup.

"How are you filling your time?"

"While on suspension, you mean?"

"Yes. What else would I mean?"

"I'm bored, Ruth, and I miss my job, and I miss everyone at work. I even miss the terrorists."

"You're very missed on the Grid. You know we're not meant to be meeting until after the inquiry."

"I have faith in Malcolm's ingenuity. I read about a Columbian drug which wipes people's memories. I wouldn't put it past Malcolm to slip some into the coffee cups of the members of the inquiry panel."

Ruth smiled at him, and in that smile lay his future.

"Ruth," he began, "Malcolm brought us here so we could talk about us."

"There is no `us', Harry. There can't be. Not now."

"Why?"

"You gave away a dangerous weapon to save my life. Were we to be …... together now …... they'd gaol you."

"The weapon didn't work, Ruth. Albany was a fake."

"I know that."

"You knew? How?"

"Malcolm told me."

"Ah." He saw, but he didn't fully understand. There was a long moment of awkwardness, during which neither looked at the other, but each were very aware of the presence of the other, the heat which emanated from another body. "Be that as it may," Harry began again, "I want us to be …... honest about how we feel."

"Why? What can possibly be gained?"

"Two people who love each other – and I'm assuming you love me, although I can't be sure …."

"Harry, loving you isn't easy, but I do. What is the point of us ….."

"Talking about this? Ruth …... I can't bear this. I can't bear ….. loving you, and not being able to be with you. We belong together."

Ruth's head was down, and she was concentrating on her tea cup, sliding a finger around the rim.

"Ruth …... say something. Tell me I'm a stupid, romantic old fool."

"You're a stupid, romantic old fool, Harry." She looked up at him, her eyes tear-filled, and frightened. "We …... can't, Harry. It would never work."

"You don't know that. I don't know that, either, but I'd like to try. I don't want to give up on us without having ever tried."

Ruth looked as though she was battling hard with an urge to run from the room. He needed to keep her there, for just a little longer. He got up from his chair, and moved to sit in the chair next to hers. Very gently, he took her hand and held it in his. Then he drew it to his lips and kissed it.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm kissing your hand, Ruth."

She drew her hand away and placed it in her lap, out of sight. Harry sighed heavily, wondering if this was simply too hard. Then he decided it was time to bite the bullet.

"Ruth, I know you don't exactly want to be here …."

"I wouldn't be here if I didn't want to be."

"Fine, then can I tell you some things I've been wanting to tell you for a while?"

Her eyes met his, and she nodded, the ghost of a smile around her lips.

"Ruth, I didn't fall in love with you right away. It took a while for me to realise how I felt about you. There were signs early on, but I missed them at the time. Before I met you I was, shall we say, quite sexually active, and even promiscuous ….."

"Harry, you don't have to tell me this."

"I think I do. Once I met you, I stopped meeting women in bars. I even stopped going to bars. I didn't notice it at the time, but the very idea of that kind of encounter felt grubby to me. And then more and more I found you occupying my private thoughts. Ruth, when you went into exile, it was the most difficult time in my life, along with the year or so after my divorce. It was only after you'd gone that I admitted to myself how much you meant to me. I can't turn that off." He took a deep breath, and slowly let it out. "I have something I need to tell you, something I'm not proud of."

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

"But I do. I want us to be honest with one another. Ruth, we've always been close. As friends we've been close. A few weeks go, I was invited to a dinner party by one of my old army friends. It wasn't until I sat at the dinner table that I realised I was the token single male, and I was being paired off with the token divorced woman."

Ruth was looking down at her teacup, and he could see tears on her cheeks.

"I ….. my host asked me to drive the woman home. I thought I'd drop her off at the door, and that would be it. Then she ….. made a pass at me, and I took it. I had sex with her that night, Ruth. I hadn't made love to a woman for almost eight years – because I was saving myself for you – and then I blew it by screwing someone who meant nothing to me."

He had felt Ruth look up as he recounted his story of breaking his sexual drought. "What sort of pass did she make at you?"

"She opened my zip and grabbed me and then began stroking me. I thought to myself, Ruth doesn't want me, so why not? I didn't stay the night. After it was over, I dressed and left. I felt dirty and weak."

"So you're confessing to me? Why would you do that? Why tell me this? I would have had no way of knowing that had happened had you not told me. I don't understand you sometimes, Harry."

"Ruth, do you love me?"

"Yes. Even now, after that story you told me about …... your …... indiscretion. It shows your weakness, and strangely, I love all facets of you, no matter how flawed. Even with your flaws, I know the sort of man you are." Ruth had lifted her hand on to the table, and her finger was nervously tracing a pattern on the table top. Tears were rolling slowly down her cheeks. She quickly wiped her tears before she continued. "I came here today to tell you that I loved you, but it wouldn't work between us, and here you are, offloading your dirty laundry on to me. That's not fair, Harry. We may have to work together, and how can ….."

"Ruth – please. Will you hear me out?"

She rose from her chair, and began to gather her things. "I was hoping for an honest discussion, and what do you do? You launch into true confessions." By the time she'd finished speaking, her voice was loud, hurt, and on the edge of breaking.

"Ruth," he said, following her to the door. "Ruth, _please._" He put his hand on her shoulder.

The door was open in front of her, and her hand was on the door knob, when she turned to look at him. With her eyes blazing, she said, "_Take. Your. Hand. Off. Me_." Then she left.

From his bedroom, Malcolm heard the raised voices, and through his window, which overlooked the street, he saw Ruth march down the path to the road. She didn't once look back.

By the time Malcolm reached the dining room, Harry was again sitting down, staring unseeing through the window to the garden beyond.

"That went well, then," Malcolm said, before he sat down opposite Harry.

"I blew it, Malcolm," Harry said quietly, his eyes still staring through the window past Malcolm. "I'm not sure that we can ever come back from here."

"It can't be that bad, surely. You know Ruth. She's sensitive, and she can be volatile, but she's not altogether unreasonable. Nothing is irretrievable, not unless you mentioned your little fling with Meryl."

Harry focused his eyes on Malcolm, his face a picture of guilt.

"Harry, you didn't! Why?"  
"I wanted to begin with a clean slate."

"Are you sure it wasn't more to do with her being in a relationship with another man while she was in Cyprus? Tit-for-tat, and all that? You were hurt by her being with George, and so you wanted to inflict just a little hurt on her. _Let her see how it feels_, you thought. Is that what you were thinking when you were shagging that ….."

"Meryl. Her name is Meryl. I don't think I've ever heard you use the term `shagging', Malcolm."

"A grubby reality requires grubby words."

"I'd call it a colloquialism, not a grubby word."

"Semantics. Mere semantics. So …. am I right? What were you thinking when you were _shagging_ …... Meryl?"

Harry sighed heavily. Malcolm's words were measured and punishing, and Harry considered he was deserving of punishment. Would the enquiry panel feel the same way? "You're right," he said at last. "When I was ….. shagging Meryl, I was thinking: _If Ruth could do this, then why not me_?"

"Was the sex worth it, Harry?"

Harry shook his head slowly. He had never felt more sad, more self-hating.

"I'll speak to her, if you like, but I don't hold out much hope."

"No, Malcolm. Thank you, but I'll handle it from here. If I'm gaoled or sacked, I may never see her again. I've been considering something, something which may solve everyone's problems."

And so Malcolm listened.


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N: Sweary word warning...**_

* * *

_Harry's house – 6 weeks later – evening:_

That was it, then. They were giving him a choice after all. He poured himself a generous measure of Glenfiddich, his second for the night. He'd not seen Ruth since she'd stormed away from him through the front door of Malcolm's house weeks earlier. The prospect of never seeing her again frightened him, and at the same time left him feeling hollow, empty, worthless. He is _worth less_ without her in his life. She always made him feel he was better than he really was. He needed music. He was in a Mahler kind of mood, so the 1st Symphony, the `Titan', it was.

Harry was lying on his sofa, his head resting against the pillows, feet up on the armrest, the third glass of Glenfiddich next to him, just within grasping distance, Mahler washing over him like waves breaking on a beach, when he heard a noise at the back door. Scarlet jumped up and trotted into the kitchen to investigate. Then he heard a voice calling his name. He knew that voice better than any other; it was the voice that called to him in his dreams. He followed Scarlet to the kitchen to see her sitting on her haunches, her tail wagging in welcome, to none other than Ruth.

"Harry," she said, looking up at him, "you should lock your back door at night. I could have been anybody."

"Most people knock before they come in."

"Some social conventions are unnecessary."

He smiled at her, happy for her to be there, although afraid of why she was there.

"I brought us some dinner," Ruth added, raising two carry bags for his inspection. "I hope you like Indian."

"Everyone likes Indian, Ruth. Are you expecting company? You've brought enough for at least eight people," he said, as she began to lay out the foil-covered containers on the table.

"I know you," she said. "I doubt you've eaten a decent meal in weeks."

Harry turned on the light, and both he and Ruth squinted as the light assaulted their eyes. "I'll turn on a couple of lamps instead," he said, switching on a lamp in the kitchen, and one top of the dresser, just outside the kitchen door. "That's better," he said, after turning off the main light in the kitchen. The room glowed with soft and mellow hues.

"Do you have wine, Harry? You appear to have started early."

He went to the refrigerator, and took out an Australian Chardonnay he'd been saving until he had someone to share it with. "I only had a couple," he said defensively.

"A couple of rather large glasses, perhaps."

"Maybe."

Ruth found where he kept the plates and the cutlery, while he took two wine glasses from an overhead cupboard.

"This is nice," he said, as he tucked into some naan bread. "I hadn't expected to see you."

Ruth stopped rearranging the curried lamb and rice on her plate, and looked across at him. "I thought you deserved an explanation. But first, I'm here to talk you into withdrawing your resignation. I have the Home Secretary's blessing. Why would you resign, Harry, if they're willing to reinstate you as Section Head?"

"Because I couldn't bear to work beside you if you don't want to be with me. After our last encounter, I was sure it would be easier on both of us were I the one to leave. I think I need a change. Perhaps a change of scenery altogether. Speaking of which, why are you really here? After the last time we saw one another, I thought the last person you'd want to see would be me."

"Ah," she said, putting down her fork, and taking a sip of her wine. "I've been thinking." She twirled her glass, so much so that he was afraid she'd tip it over. "It occurred to me that I've lost a lot of people in my life – my father, Danny, Adam, Zoe, Zaf, Jo, and even Ros and Lucas – and I couldn't bear to lose another one. I don't want to lose you, Harry." Her eyes seemed mesmerised by the wine swirling in her glass. "I was rather hard on you that day at Malcolm's. I hadn't expected the grand declaration of love from you. We're not normally like that …..."

"No, we give away state secrets and fake our deaths for one another. We never engage in anything so crass as face-to-face declarations of undying love."

She glanced up at him and smiled. "You caught me off-guard, a bit like the time you asked me to marry you. If you want the truth from me ….."

"I do, Ruth."

"I got scared. You can be quite a force of nature when you get going. I found you quite …... intimidating. I kept thinking that if this is what you're like when you tell me you love me, then what would a life with you be like? What would you be like in bed?" She dropped her gaze, suddenly embarrassed by the images her words invoked. "I was sure I couldn't handle all that ….. that _passion_. There have been times when you _glow_ with it, like you're radioactive. That's a ….. a scary prospect for someone like me, Harry."

"I can't hide it or suppress it. That's how I feel about you, Ruth."

"That seems to be how you feel about a lot of things. I've seen you shed tears at the prospect of unnecessary loss of life, I've seen you enraged at your operatives when they take short-cuts, but the way you were when you told me how you felt about me .… and then when you kissed my hand …." Ruth shuddered at the memory. "Harry, you were …... incandescent_._"

"How do you want me to be?"

"I have no problem with how you are, it's just that I can't believe that you feel that way about …... about me. I have difficulty accepting that amount of love from you. I'm so very ordinary."

"Ruth, ordinary is something you could never be. You are without doubt the least ordinary person I know. You are brilliant. You are sensitive and compassionate. You are the kindest and wisest person I've ever met." He stopped, breathing deeply, and when he again spoke, his voice had deepened. "My last thought before I go to sleep is of you, and my first thought as I wake is still of you. But just loving you from afar is no longer enough for me. I want more." Harry took a large sip of his wine, and swallowed. "I want your body as well. I want to love you in every way there is. I'm not a monk, Ruth."

"Apparently not."

"If that's a dig at what I unwisely told you, then I deserved it."

"Malcolm told me why it was you did it – with that woman – and why you told me about it."

"You've talked to Malcolm?"

"We met for coffee last week. He was worried about you, and wanted to put a few things into perspective. Strangely, I can understand why it was you slept with that woman. I'd never given much thought to how you would have reacted to me being with George. In your shoes, I'm sure I would have felt the same."

"I didn't sleep with her, Ruth. I left her bed almost immediately after we fucked." He notice Ruth recoil at his use of the word. "It was just a fuck, Ruth, and all it meant to me was to remind me of how much I didn't want her, and how much I wanted you ... how much I wished I'd waited for you."

"Have you seen her again? Will you see her again?"

"No, I haven't, and no, I won't."

They spent a few minutes in silence, eating their meal, and contemplating where to go next.

"What was her name?"

"Why do you need to know?"

"So I can stop referring to her as `that woman'."

"Her name is Meryl."

"Right. That's what Malcolm said."

"Why did you ask me if you already knew?"

"I wanted to see if you'd tell me the truth."

"Why wouldn't I?"

"No reason. I have just one question. How come you remember her name if all you had together was a meaningless fuck?"

Harry felt himself pull back slightly at her use of the expletive. The word sounded so wrong when coming from her lips. "I like the name. I had a thing for Meryl Streep after I saw her in _Sophie's Choice_." He looked across the table at her to find her smiling at him. He smiled back.

After they'd eaten, Harry opened another bottle of wine, this time a Chablis, and they sat together on the sofa, the only light coming from a standard lamp in the corner of the room. Ruth noticed how tired Harry looked. Suddenly, she was prepared to wait no longer. She slid across the sofa until their thighs touched, then she turned to face him, and took his face in her hands, and turned him towards her. His hair was longer than he normally wore it, and before she did anything else, she ran her fingers through the hair above his ears, and around to the back of his head where it kicked up in a curl. Just before she touched his lips with her own, she saw a deep sadness in his eyes. _Treat this man gently, he's not as tough as he'd like you to believe_, she thought, before she drew him towards her and kissed him. It was a soft and gentle kiss, a kiss of exploration, but beneath their mouths they both felt the tension of the passion they'd each held in for years. They both drew out of the kiss, and then their eyes met. They smiled at one another, and Harry put his hands either side of her face, and dipped his head towards her for another kiss. This time, they opened their mouths so that their kiss was deeper, more urgent, and intimate. This was not a destination, but it _was_ a beginning.

"You can't possibly know how jealous I've been feeling," Ruth said, as she drew away from the kiss.

"Of what? Of whom? Not Meryl, surely."

"Yes. She had something with you that I've never had."

"I've never denied you, Ruth. Had you come to me and said, _Let's go home to your place and make love_, then I would hardly have said no. You forget that you kept running away from all that."

"I know. But I also thought – stupidly, as it turns out – that you'd wait for me until I was ready."

"I would have, Ruth, but I'm also human."

"So …... if I opened your zip now, and …... touched you there …."

"On my penis."

"Yes ... there …. would you jump into bed with me?"

"If you were a willing participant, yes. The only difference would be that your attention would be very welcome, and I'd want us to spend the rest of the night in one another's arms."

"Okay. I think I get it now."

"Stay with me, Ruth. Stay the night in my bed with me. I don't care if we remain fully clothed, and we do nothing more than kiss and cuddle."

"Wouldn't you want more? Wouldn't you want it all?"

"Yes, I would."

"Then, why are we still downstairs? We both have work to go to tomorrow. We haven't much time, Harry."

"Are you sure about this, Ruth?"

"I've never been more certain about anything in my life."

* * *

_**A/N: This story can easily be left there (and possibly should be), but I couldn't help myself. Final chapter coming up.**_


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N:**** Thanks for reading and reviewing this little story, which began with the idea of Harry having a brief indiscretion which hovers over him getting together with Ruth. Final chapter.**_

* * *

_Seven weeks later – Camden Markets:_

"How about pink?"

"Harry, I already have a pink scarf."

"I know. What about this one?" He takes the end of the scarf, and in an uncharacteristic gesture, trails it under her chin.

"What do you think?" Ruth asks him. "Do you like it?"

If he is being honest, there are times when her indecision drives him to distraction. Despite this, he wishes to be nowhere else. It is Sunday, and they have agreed that, sparing national emergencies, they will spend each Sunday together, as a couple, doing coupley kinds of things. Ruth insists on it because she wants to believe that they can have a normal relationship in a normal world. Harry knows that Sundays are when they pretend to be like other people, all the time knowing that the old woman who sells rings and necklaces from the corner stall may be harbouring under her voluminous skirts a trigger device for a bomb, or the young man riding a bicycle aimlessly through the crowd could well be an FSB asset.

"Ruth, you will be the one to wear it. Do _you_ like it?"

"Yes, but you're the one who will be looking at me wearing it. You have to like it, too."

He dips his head closer to her. "I like you whatever you're wearing, but especially when you're wearing nothing at all."

"Harry! You're so …... so .."

"Adorable …. sexy …. irresistible ….?"

"I was going to say adolescent... and predictable."

He pulls back from her in pretend shock, but then his face breaks into a smile, and his eyes cannot hide his adoration of her. _God_, he thinks, _I'm becoming so bloody normal_. But there are times when he enjoys normal. Their shared day of `normal' is what refuels him for the remainder of the week.

If they had to choose their favourite time of the week, both he and Ruth would say Sunday mornings. They would have had a late dinner, usually at his house, and in the morning – Sunday morning - they luxuriate in one another in whatever way takes their fancy. They usually begin by sitting up in bed reading – Ruth with a book, preferably an anthology of ancient love poetry, and Harry, reading glasses perched on his nose, the Sunday newspapers. Invariably, Harry's newspapers end up on Ruth's side of the bed, she scoffs and complains, suggesting he try moving into the 21st century, and read his news online like the rest of the modern world, to which he replies that, as a tactile animal, he prefers his news on paper rather than on a screen. He kisses her to placate her, and then books and newspapers are tossed aside, any clothing they have worn to bed is similarly discarded, and they indulge in one another's bodies until they are exhausted. Sunday morning sex is always the best sex of all. Their lovemaking is slow and languid, and they are free to take their time over pleasuring one another.

Sunday afternoon is for a drive to the country, a walk on the heath, or a visit to a market. Harry would much rather they spend all day in bed, preferably naked, but Ruth insists they get out and rub shoulders with the world they spend all week protecting. "We mustn't lose sight of why it is we do what we do," she says whenever he grumbles about crowds, or dogs, dog owners, or Sunday drivers. Today they are visiting Camden Markets, and despite Harry loathing being part of a crowd of people who are ambling aimlessly, rather than striding purposefully towards a known destination, he is enjoying himself immensely because he is with Ruth. She makes everything in his life worthwhile.

"You have to choose something," he says. "I always buy you something when we go out of a Sunday."

"Harry, you don't have to. I already have enough scarves."

"How about that one?" he picks up the mauve scarf which he'd held in front of her face, "And I think this one would look amazing on you." He takes an ivory and ice-blue silk scarf from a display above the counter. "Let me buy these for you, Ruth."

She smiles and nods. Harry's generosity is something she has difficulty accepting. He is never deterred by her reluctance to accept his gifts. If anything, it spurs him on.

"There's a bookshop I hadn't seen before," Ruth says, pulling Harry to the corner shop with books displayed in the windows. "I'm looking for a gift for Malcolm. There might be something in here."

"Does Malcolm need rewarding for his part in getting us together?" Harry asks.

"Definitely," she replies.

Twenty minutes later, they leave the shop, Ruth with a first edition of Walt Whitman's _"Leaves Of Grass"_ for Malcolm, and Harry with a copy of Peter Reid's _"A Brief History Of Medieval Warfare",_ which he explains to Ruth he plans to read in his spare time.

"What spare time?" she quips, and he surreptitiously pats her bum before she turns to walk away.

"I could do with a coffee now," she says. "Accepting your gifts is exhausting work."

Harry smiles and takes her hand as they wend their way through the crowds to a coffee shop in an alleyway off the Camden High Street. Arriving as many of the late lunchtime crowd are leaving, they find a table for two at the back. Ruth sighs heavily as she sits down. "My feet are killing me. Since we've been together, Harry, I don't do nearly enough walking. You insist on driving me everywhere …."

"I do that because it's more efficient, Ruth. Besides, you and I know that crazy people are everywhere."

"I hope there are none in this shop, because I need to rest my feet."

Harry's phone chirrups, announcing the arrival of a text message. "Mmm," he says as he reads it, "I think you made a hit with my son. He signs off with `Give my love to your lovely lady'. He might be a lot of things, but he obviously has good taste in women."

"He might be talking about Scarlet."

"Somehow I doubt it." He watches her for a moment before continuing. "How did you do it, Ruth? How did you so easily make a connection with him?"

"I met him where _he_ is, and not from where I am ... and it wasn't easy. Graham is hard work, like another Pearce I happen to know and love." She hesitates before continuing. "I also happen to know how it feels to be different."

"Different?"

"From how others expect me to be. It can't be easy for Graham to be the only son of Harry Pearce."

Three weeks earlier, Harry had organised a casual dinner at a pizza restaurant to introduce Ruth to his children. Catherine and Ruth had soon settled into easy conversation with one another, but Graham – seemingly there under orders from his sister – had taken much longer to thaw. There were so many times when he'd scowl, or sit back in his chair, cross his arms and sulk, or suddenly smile so widely that his whole face relaxed, and Ruth felt like laughing aloud, so closely did his mood changes resemble Harry's. Despite herself, Ruth found herself warming to Harry's son, and he'd responded to her.

"I'd been really worried when I heard that Dad was with someone," he told Ruth towards the end of the evening. "I mean, what sort of woman would want a crusty old fart like him? Now, seeing how different he is when he's with you …. well …. you must be someone pretty special. I can see what he sees in you, but I've no idea what you see in him."

"Your father has hidden depths, and what's more important, he has integrity. I'm proud of the man he is. He's all I've ever wanted, Graham. We've known one another a long time, and believe me, he's _not_ a crusty old fart, even though he does a rather convincing impression of one."

"So long as he treats you well."

"He treats me very well."

And from that moment on, Ruth and Graham are friends.

"I feel like food, Ruth. Would you like Danish with your coffee?"

"Just a small one, thanks. I don't want to spoil dinner."

"Why? What are we having for dinner?"

"I thought we could ring for something. Do you feel like cooking, because I don't."

"We could have Chinese," Harry suggests.

"I'm happy with that."

Harry has only just sat down after ordering their coffee and cake, when a voice interrupts them.

"Harry. It is Harry, isn't it? I didn't, after all, get to see a lot of your face."

Harry and Ruth each look up to see a smart, well-dressed early-50's woman approach their table. Her eyes take in both of them, but they soon settle on Harry, and Ruth knows him well enough to realise that he doesn't wish to see this woman. He stares at her, his teeth clenched, his jaw jutting, his eyes flashing.

"Surely you haven't forgotten me, Harry, It's only been – what – three, four months? We had such a great time together. Is this your wife? I hadn't known you were married. Does she know about me? No?"

The woman, having turned to Ruth, held out her hand to her. "Meryl Cassidy. I met Harry a few months ago. He told me he was divorced, but obviously he's not."

Ruth ignored the woman's proffered hand. "Harry has told me about you, Meryl. Strangely, I imagined you'd be younger." And uncharacteristically for Ruth, she maintains steady eye contact with the woman. "He told me about your special skills with zippers."

Harry, about to ask Meryl to leave them be, almost chokes at Ruth's last comment. Meryl looks pleadingly at Harry, who takes a deep breath before he speaks. "We'd quite like you to go now, Meryl. The show's over, and my wife wins hands down."

Meryl turns, and leaves without another word.

It is then that a waitress delivers their coffees and Danish pastries, and so for a few minutes their attention is taken by working out who had the latte, and who had ordered the cappuccino. Ruth notices, as he adds sugar to his cappuccino, that Harry's hands are shaking. Remarkably for Ruth, her hands are steady.

"Thank you for that, Ruth," he says after a time. "I don't deserve you."

"She had a bloody nerve coming over here. It was obvious she was trying to upset us. It's clear to me you'd had a few drinks before you decided it was a good idea to shag her, Harry. She seemed rather sad and desperate. I had no need at all to be jealous of her."

"I had tried to tell you that." Harry stares into his cup of coffee before lifting his eyes to meet her own. "Forgive me," he says, reaching across the table for her hand, barely able to give her eye contact.

Ruth meets his hand with her own, and their fingers entwine. "I forgave you weeks ago. She, on the other hand …... she's a piece of work, and I won't ask you what you saw in her."

"The truth is that all I saw in her was an opportunity, and I'm not proud of that at all." He looks across the table at her, his face serious. "I love you, Ruth," he says.

"You'd better," she replies.

"Let's go home once we've finished our coffee."

"I'll be in on that. Any reason for the hurry?"

"What do you think?" He says, his eyes shining, his face full of love for her.

"You're a greedy man, Harry."

"Just greedy for you, Ruth."


End file.
